The Eagle and the Stag
by TangoMikeMike
Summary: AU. On New Year's Eve, 1986, Yuktobania invades Osea. The Osean Army, underfunded and poorly led, fails to withstand the communist onslaught, and is routed. Join the brave remnants of the Osean Army as they struggle to defend their country and their way of life. Follow on the ground, in the air, and beneath the sea as the Osean military strikes back. Inspired by Red Storm Rising.


/0300 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/Avon, Western Osea/

The picturesque fields of the Avon River valley had once been considered one of the most beautiful locales in the world. Now, they could only be considered hellish. Where stately manors and fairytale cottages had once stood, only ruins remained. On the rolling green hills that had once inspired joy and wonder, resided torment and agony. Where children had played and families had lived, soldiers engaged in a duel of death. Fields of poppies had become graveyards for tanks. The Avon had became the latest stage for a drama that had been unfolding for nearly a year- the Intercontinental War.

Captain William "Sweet Tooth" Fairchild watched the hills with sore eyes. He had been awake for 36 hours. Ever since he and the 66th Armored Brigade had been sent to the Avon theater, it had been constant combat. Already his unit had suffered nearly fifty-percent casualties. Only twenty seven tanks of their original forty were serviceable. Yuktobanian air attacks, artillery barrages, and armored assaults had whittled them down, and without relief, they would break in a matter of days, if not less.

William had seen what this place did to men. The unit they had relieved, the 44th Infantry Brigade, had suffered nearly one hundred percent casualties. The majority of their tanks had been total write offs, minus a handful which had quickly been incorporated as part of the tactical reserve. Already several had been sent back to the 66th to replace losses. The 44th had also suffered greatly in manpower. The unit existed only on paper now. The entire theatre was a meat grinder that tested man and machine, and it would remain that way until one army managed to force the other back.

Water dripped across William's head. It had rained all night, and it looked as if it would continue into the daylight hours. The nylon camouflage net was saturated, and water had managed to find its way through the man's poncho. It was miserable.

"Mind closing the goddamn hatch?" A female voice growled from inside the turret. "I'm getting soaked down here." It was his gunner, Michelle Travis, a reservist, and a replacement.

"Negative on that." William barked. "The enemy could show up at any moment."

"Oh shut it." She groaned. "You can't see shit in this soup. Close the goddamn hatch."

He relented and dropped down, closing the heavy piece of armor plate behind him. Inside the tank's armored carapace, everything was bathed in an eerie red glow, including skin. The reek of sweat, cordite, and lubricating oil was oppressive, as was the heat and humidity. The fact that no one had showered in well over a week didn't help.

William looked over to his loader, who was busy organizing the 120mm shells in the ammo rack. He was an army regular, like himself.

"What's our ammo situation?" The captain asked.

"Critical." The loader, a private named James Ural, sighed. "We only have eleven rounds of sabot left. We're worse off on HEAT. Just six rounds of that."

William cursed. They needed a resupply. He placed his head in his hand for a moment, before grabbing the intercom.

"Sergeant Wu, how's the old girl?" He asked his driver, waiting for a response. He was down in the hull, tucked into a claustrophobically small space. William only had to wait for a few seconds.

"We're running low on fuel, and we got mud everywhere, but other than that we're good. Say what you want, automotively speaking we're golden."

"Good to hear. At least we got something." The commander sighed with some cheerfulness. A minor victory in the middle of a terrible situation.

The radio crackled. William perked up and checked the TACOM. The unit was supposed to maintain radio silence, except for the most dire of situations. He scrolled through channels, scanning, but not transmitting.

"Ferret 2-1 to Timberwolf." The entire crew was watching now. Ferret was the company recon platoon. They were forward deployed, on the far side of the river, watching for the enemy. "Ferret 2-1, this is Timberwolf." William said calmly. "Report."

"We got eyes on an enemy column, at least forty tanks, unknown type. Supporting arms and infantry is present as well. Looks like a major assault. They're heading up route 74, toward the Avon River Bridge."

"Repeat that Ferret?" William snapped.

"I repeat, large Yuktobanian column moving up route 74 to your position. Brigade size element with supporting arms."

"Copy that. Pull back to the predetermined rally point. Good work Ferret, you saved us getting caught with our pants down."

The rest of the crew were watching now, their faces flat. William lowered the radio set. "Get ready." He popped the hatch, letting a shower of water drop down into the turret. "Get the camouflage net down, and prepare for combat." His right hand clicked the radio. It was time to address the unit.

"All tanks, we have a large enemy contingent moving toward our location. At least a brigade. Move to defensive position Bravo, and prepare to fight. They're gonna hit us with all that they got." The receiver growled with numerous affirmations. The wolf pack was going hunting.

James scrambled out of his hatch, grabbing the camouflage net and shoving it messily into the turret bustle. They didn't have time to fold it. The sodden soldier dropped down into his seat moments after.

"Driver, get us moving!" William barked.

"Roger that Cap!" Wu shot back. With a press of a button, the fifteen hundred horsepower turbine screeched into life. The puddle of sitting water on the engine deck began to boil at the incredible amount of heat the powerpack produced. On IR screens it would light up like a christmas tree.

"Reverse!" The commander barked, and the tank jolted into gear. The rubber and steel tracks squelched through the thick mud before they caught traction, drawing the tank out of the hole it had been hidden inside. Three other tanks did the same, finally revealing first platoon, Timberwolf company.

"Timberwolf 1-2, ready." The tank to the left of William's sounded off.

"Timberwolf 1-3, ready." The tank on the right of William's sounded off.

"Timberwolf 1-4, ready." The final tank of the platoon sounded off.

"All platoons, report in!" William ordered. Once again, the radio growled with affirmations. They were combat ready.

Engines snarled as the tanks scrambled about, reversing over the low hills that framed the river, taking up hull down positions on the reverse slope. They were the first line of an integrated defensive line. They were the anvil.

"Aircraft! Incoming!" William jumped as James reported.

And he was right. Coming low and parallel to the lines was no less the six Yuktobanian Su-25 fighter-bombers. The roar of the engines reverberated around the hills and seemed to drown out even the sound of rolling thunder.

The air defense artillery opened up. The sky was shattered as the Vulcans fired, setting streamers of crimson across the sky. One Frogfoot was struck along the fuselage, bursting into flames. The pilot punched out in a flash of smoke, leaving his stricken fighter to fall into the woods below, vanishing in a fiery explosion.

The survivors were not deterred. They flew low over the defensive lines, dropping dozens of cluster bombs. Smaller explosions rocked the muddy earth as they burst. William cursed. His tanks were well protected, but the dismounted infantry and the softer skinned vehicles were torn to shreds.

The Yukes gave them no time to recover. Even as the smoke was clearing from the bombs, and the roar of the fighters faded, came the whistle of shells. Big shells.

"Incoming!" Someone shouted over the radio.

The barrage made contact moments later. William's tank shook with the concussion, and the experienced tank commander could feel it in his chest. Each dull thud he heard would be a fatal blast to anyone without the benefit of armor.

"I need counter-battery fire, now!" The radio crackled again. William recognized the voice as the brigade commander's.

"Fire on the way." The batteries reported back.

The barrage stopped. The Yuke artillery was relocating. They had an opening.

"All tanks, make a beeline for cover!" Armor or not, if his tanks stayed in the open they would suffer.

"This is Timberwolf 3-2, I threw a track and cannot move! Requesting assistance!"

William cursed and looked down at his maps, before checking his GPS monitor. All of his tanks were marked in blue, and he could track their locations.

"Bailout Timberwolf 3-2. Get to cover and sit this one out. Your crew is worth more than that hunk of metal. We'll recover it after the battle." Silently William cursed. One tank down.

The shells were coming in again. Fairchild was looking around through his CITV, the Commander's Independent Thermal Viewer. It was a world that was leached of color, but he was able to see everything around him in cold clarity. On both sides of the muddy road, infantry were lying, struggling to shelter themselves from the rain of steel. They didn't look human. They simply were white, man shaped specters of heat.

The M1 tank rattled from the incoming barrage. The bursting rounds looked like flashes of lighting through the thermal sight. Thankfully they were far off, targeting a section of the line further down.

"Commander, I got tanks in sight." Michelle reported. Will took his sight and rotated around, looking across the river. He could see plumes of hot exhaust, as well as the warm figures. He couldn't identify the enemy tanks, but he didn't have too.

"Watch them, but hold your fire." He told her, before speaking into his radio set. "This is Captain Fairchild to Brigade, I need a smoke barrage on my position. We need cover." He kept his eyes on the Yuktobanian tanks that were casually grinding up the four lane highway toward the bridge. "And blow that damn bridge. Tell the engineers it's time to get rid of it."

He didn't need to ask twice. The engineers had rigged it previously, ready to destroy it as soon as the need arose. Through the tank's turret came the concussion of a massive blast. Where there once had been a bridge, was nothing but twisted metal. Running away from the ruins were dozens of tiny blobs… Osean infantry, with Yuke machine gun fire hot on their heals.

"Smoke incoming!" The brigade artillery came to the rescue. Thick smoke enveloped the east bank of the river, sheltering the withdrawing engineers.

The tank ground to a halt, before neutral steering in place, presenting the frontal armor. Sergeant Wu was bringing them back, across the crest of a low hill, until nothing but the tanks turret was visible.

"First platoon in position!" Fairchild reported, before checking his GPS. The other tanks had done the same. The hills were alive. It was time to hunt.

The Yuktobanians were regrouping. The loss of the bridge had been a setback, but not an unexpected one. Already the infantry was preparing to cross the river in their amphibious BTR's as the tanks provided overwatch. Bridging tanks were coming from the rear, ready to set up crossing for the armor. Even the splashes and bursts of Osean shells failed to deter them.

Will took control of the tank's turret, and began to scan for targets. He couldn't identify them, so instead he decided to engage on those tanks closest to him. "All Timberwolves,

engage at will."

He had never heard them happier.

Michelle was already ready, her eye pressed into her own gun sight, ready to engage tanks that Will pointed out.

"Load Sabot!" Will ordered.

"Up!" Jake reported.

"Identify target!" Will barked.

"Identified!" Michelle snapped.

"Fire!" Will snarled.

"On the waaaaaaaay!" Michelle howled.

The 120mm gun, Belkan designed, cracked and recoiled into the turret. The cartridge stub fell into the bag below the breech with a sharp click. Through his sight, Will watched the shell cross the valley and find its mark. A Yuktobanian tank vanished in flame, before reappearing as a smoldering wreck.

"Switch target!" Will whooped, swinging the turret to the next tank he saw. His mouth opened to speak, but was silenced by the sound of hissing steel. There was a flash of sparks, and Will was thrown off of his seat and into the back of the turret. Smoke filled the turret, before being cleared out by the ventilation system.

"Timberwolf 1-1, are you hit?" Timberwolf 1-2 asked over the radio.

Will's ears were ringing, but he was coherent. He looked up, and saw no evidence of a successful penetration. "What happened?" He coughed, still deaf to the battle that raged around them.

"We just took an ATGM." Jake groaned, dragging himself off the turret floor. "Didn't penetrate, but it was an ugly hit." The shell he had been holding was on the floor at his feet. He had dropped it on himself.

"Sergeant Wu, you alright?"

"I'm fine. I pulled us back after the hit, we're in cover." The driver reported.

"Good job mate," Will let slip, before getting himself in his seat.

"Sergeant Travis?" He asked as soon as he was situated.

Sergeant Travis coughed, holding her head. She was bleeding from a shallow cut. "Fine sir… I think"

William said nothing as he gently took her hand, pulling it away from the blood soaked gash. "You're wounded…" He pulled a few strands of her hair away, so he could get a better look. "Did you hit your head?" William always wore his helmet. Michelle did so rarely, complaining that it threw her aim.

"It doesn't look too bad. Just messy." Will was no doctor though, he couldn't be certain if she had suffered a concussion. "Are you good to fight?"

"Yeah, just a little dazed." She grabbed a water bottle, popping the cap and draining half of it over her face. Streaks of blood stained her soot coated face, but the cut was clean. "I'm ready."

Jake had pulled himself back up, and he had a shell in his lap. "Ready to go sir." A smile edged to his worn face.

William nodded, finding his seat. "Alright wolves. Let's hunt."

~oO-Oo~

/0330 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/Highway 85 crossing, Avon/

Things at the river bank were quickly becoming dire. While the tanks had formed the main line of defense, it was the infantry who were bearing the brunt of the enemy assault. It was the riflemen that would screen ahead of the tanks, protecting them from enemy ATGM teams. After all, it always came down to the infantryman and his rifle.

Lieutenant Bradley Davis held his head down in the muddy trench. Bullets choked the air. He and the other men of Bravo company, 41st Mechanized Infantry, had been tasked with holding the river bank, and preventing the Yuktobanians from forming a bridge head. After four days of constant combat, his company had been reduced to only forty rifles. His Captain had been one of the first to die, leaving the 1st Lieutenant in command.

"Come on men! Hold on!" He shouted over the cacophony of combat. One of his squads had been fully pinned down by auto-cannon fire, 50 yards down the line from him. They couldn't break, not now. They were the only thing standing between an entire Yuke motorized battalion, and the already battered defenders of the Avon.

The sound of an M-16 popped through the whistle of cannon fire. Davis's platoon sergeant ducked down after firing his burst, holding his helmet against his head and grimacing. "I got at least seven BTR's on this stretch of river alone, and more behind it." Bradley cringed, his gloved hand tightening around the polymer grip of his rifle.

"Maybe if we had some air support." The Usean-born sergeant suggested. "Get an A-10 or something to make a pass, tear them up as they're in the water. Sitting ducks."

Davis nodded in agreement, before poking his head over the lip of the muddy embankment. One the far side, he could see the Yuktobanian armored vehicles in formation abreast. Of most concern were the wheeled BTR's, which had an amphibious capability. Their crews were working to get them ready for the crossing, despite the Osean artillery that was dropping in their midst.

"They're lined up on the bank, perfect for a strafing run." The infantry officer noted. "Hagler! Get the field set over here!" Private Hagler had the platoon field telephone, and he would be able to get them in connection with the rest of the brigade.

The portly little man perked up, looking over toward the the Sergeant and the Lieutenant. Ducking to avoid the swarm of machine gun fire, he ran toward them. "What do you need sergeant!" The reservist attempted a salute, only to have his hand batted down by Davis.

"We need the radio."

Hagler fumbled with the field telephone, setting it down into the mud and getting the antenna deployed. Davis took the handset. "This is Bravo Six to Brigade. We have a hostile river crossing in progress. It looks like a motorized rifle unit. Do we have any air assets? We need a strafing run. " The lieutenant didn't wait for a response. He took his rifle and began to fire quick three round bursts, forcing several Yuktobanian soldiers into cover.

"I'm sorry Bravo Six. Air Force isn't allowing planes in the area, the SAM net is too thick. You're going to have to make do without it." The Brigade Commander's voice had a frustrated growl to it. "But I'll work on seeing if we can get Wild Weasels to clear those SAMs. Hold out for now." The line went dead as the commander went to focus on his next challenge. Davis cursed and looked to his Sergeant. "Looks like we're all alone. Tell the men we're gonna have to fight without air support." The battered officer slapped a fresh magazine into his rifle. "We're gonna hold this line to the last man. I'm not going to fail those who depend on us."

The sergeant nodded grimly. "Well, we aren't gonna last much longer if we don't get our MG clear." The machine gun team was still pinned down. Bradley let out a nervous laugh. "Well, we might just have to do something crazy about that, won't we?"

~oO-Oo~

/0405 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/15,000 feet over McChord, Central Osea/

High above the battlefield, and far behind it, back in what was still securely Osean, eagles soared. The men of the 407th Tactical Fighter Squadron kept the watch over McChord, 50 miles east of the Avon. 3,000 feet below and behind them flew the Ravens of the 388th Tactical Electronic Squadron. Even further behind flew airborne warning and control systems aircraft "Apollo". The E767 flew high, at 30,000 feet, avoiding interference from even the longest ranged surface to air missile.

Captain Samuel "Cobra" Salyer led his flight of F-15C's, codenamed Viper, to the north. They were flying cover for a squadron of EF-111's, codenamed Electric Fox. The formation was tasked with flying a wild weasel mission far to the north, to clear the Lakeshore-Dryden corridor for heavy bombers. However, they would never arrive.

"This is AWACS Apollo to Viper flight, you have new orders. Avon front just went hot, and we can't get air support in due to enemy air defences. Get in and clear them. Those army boys are depending on you."

Cobra took note of the order change before transmitting to the other pilots. "All planes, we got new orders." His baritone voice rumbled over the radio. "We are to shift to bearing 270, and perform a SEAD mission. We gotta clear the way for the bombers."

The eagles banked and made the turn, jettisoning their drop tanks as they did. They wouldn't need them. After all, their time to target had just been cut in half. The Ravens followed in succession.

Salyer looked to his left and his right. On his right wing was Flight Lieutenant John "Cottonmouth" Yale, and on his left, as his wingman, Flight Lieutenant Richard "Boa" Snow. On the far right was Flight Lieutenant Tyrese "Adder" Brown, flying trail. Viper squadron also included three other flights of four fighters each, totaling sixteen F-15C fighter jets.

The powerful APG-70 pulse doppler radar in each fighter's nose scoured the air ahead, sniffing for prey. However, the Yuktobanians had made use of powerful jamming, obscuring everything above and behind their lines. In addition, they possessed a complex and effective system of overlapping SAM coverage, deadly to any aircraft that would dare approach. To combat this, one eagle in each flight carried their own jamming equipment, in place of one of their four AIM-120 missiles.

"Forty miles to target." AWACS reported to all planes in the flight. "Drop to angels 10 and prepare for combat. Be advised, friendly ground forces have reported enemy aircraft in the vicinity. Keep your heads on a swivel."

"You heard the man. Viper flight, prepare to engage any and all targets. Clear the way for Electric Fox to do their jobs." Salyer brought a gloved hand to his helmet, bringing his visor up. He could see the low hanging rain clouds that straddled the shallow hills of the Avon valley. Even with the F-15 being an all weather fighter the rain would make combat a challenge. "Electric Fox, get your ECCM going. We need that jamming cleared. Visibility is too low to eyeball this."

"Roger that Viper lead, beginning ECCM mission." Electric Fox lead affirmed.

The powerful electronic warfare suite encased in the tail pod of each Raven spooled into action. Invisible to the naked eye, a battle was being fought by conflicting signals, by waves of electrons and electromagnetic radiation. The only hint to this sub-atomic war was the flickering of each warplane's radar screen.

"Radar is clearing up." Adder reported. "I can see at least fourteen contacts, directly ahead. AWACS, can you confirm?"

There was a pause. Salyer already had one eye glued to his own radar screen. The white noise was clearing up, and just like Adder, he was able to see fourteen contacts, directly ahead and below.

"Apollo confirms, Viper flight. Fourteen contacts, moving fast toward your position. Cannot identify, assume bogeys are hostile."

"Roger that Apollo! Viper flight, engage!" The eagles roared ahead, closing with the incoming hostile aircraft. The Ravens held back, the heavy two seat aircraft much too vulnerable against enemy fighters.

As the distance closed, their radars were finally able to identify the hostiles. The computer system housed in each aircraft processed the data, before beaming it on to the pilot's HUD. Fourteen MiG-29A fulcrums, approaching at military power.

Salyer's finger flipped a small switch, activating his fire control radar. With a second quick button press, he selected one of the three AIM-120 AMRAAMs mounted on the belly of his eagle. There was as seconds delay, before the shrill growl of lock tone rung in Cobra's headset.

"Viper 1 engaging! Fox Three!"

With a soft thunk, the missile was deployed. It free fell for a moment, before its rocket motor engaged, sending the seven inch thick projectile forward at Mach 4.

"Viper 2, Fox Three!"

"Viper 4, Fox Three!"

"Viper 3, Fox Three!"

Salyer didn't wait around to watch. As soon as the missile was free, he snap rolled, slamming the throttle forward. His missile warning was already blaring, the MiG's had returned fire.

The R-77 Active Radar Homing missile was a dangerous but not invincible opponent. Already, the countermeasure system in his fighter's tail was at work, bombarding the missile with false signals in an attempt to defeat it.

G's pulled at Salyer's body as he reversed his turn, now coming low, nape of the earth, trying to use ground clutter to improve his chances of survival. The rest of the flight had also broken, each individual pilot trying to throw off the missiles streaking in at four times the speed of sound.

"Gahh…. rahhhh….." Samuel struggled to breath as the forces of gravity yanked at his chest. The missile had finally came into visible range. Sam could see the bright flickering of the enemy missile's rocket engine, as well as the glittering white contrail of exhaust smoke.

With a sharp reversal, he finally succeeded, breaking the missile off of him. Target-less, the weapon continued on a gently looping path before detonating in the trees below.

Sam's head dropped down to his radar screen once more. He could see the other Vipers, all diving about, marked as the blue on his screen. He counted thirteen.

"Apollo, who did we lose?"

Apollo's voice was level, betraying no emotion. "Viper 2, 5, and 11 were all shot down. Do you see any chutes?"

Sam felt his blood go cold. Richard had been shot down? The fighter pilot grit his teeth. He hadn't truly known the man- they had been assigned to one another only a few weeks before. But losing a wingman… that was the ultimate injury. It was his responsibility to keep his boys alive.

He could see the rising pillars of oily black smoke, the funeral pyres of his eagles. No parachutes. No point getting attached. It was war. People died.

"All remaining fighters, regroup and prepare for the merge!" He growled.

The first salvo had been traded, and now it was time to duel. The eleven remaining MiG's had rejoined into a loose formation, their radar missiles straining to get a lock in the storm of jamming. The only way to ensure a kill now was either with guns or infrared seeking missiles.

The thirteen remaining eagles screeched ahead, their AMRAAMs relegated to a secondary role. Now, as the two swarms of warbirds met over the Avon, it was a dogfight.

Samuel opened up the throttle, feeling himself being pressed back into his seat. Pulling back on the stick, his fighter climbed, roaring, into the dark morning sky. From below, all that was visible through the clouds and the darkness of night were the flashes of gunfire and the rings of afterburning engines.

At the apex of his climb, Samuel rolled over, pulling back on the stick and entering a steep dive. His eyes scanned for the green boxes on his hud, or, barring that, the silhouettes of the actual aircraft themselves. He also kept his eyes open for the blue boxes that denoted his squadron. He wouldn't abandon them.

He caught sight of a MiG, bearing down on the tail of an eagle. Cannon fire spanned the sky between them.

"This is Viper 12, I got a bandit on my tail!" The young pilot's voice was trembling with exertion and terror. Sam grit his teeth, kicking the rudder and drawing back on the throttle, dropping on the Yuktobanian fighter's tail.

"Guns guns guns!" His finger pulled the trigger, the M61A1 Vulcan mounted in the F-15's wing root whirring into life. The entire aluminum frame of the nimble bird trembled at the might of the cannon's roar. Sam could feel the rumbling deep into his gut and through his bones.

The three second burst was more than enough. Dozens of 20mm rounds, half High Explosive Incendiary, half Armor Piercing Incendiary, struck the Yuktobanian MiG. The wing tore apart in a gout of flame, the rest of the burning airframe dropping into the hill below. There was no ejection.

"There you go Viper 12, your six is clear!" Cobra pulled forward, onto the other eagle's wing.

"Thanks Viper 1. Good hunting." Viper 12 peeled off, back into the developing furball.

Sam pulled on the stick, bringing himself into an immelman turn. Before him he could see the dance of fighters, the contrails,the engine flame, and the cannon fire. His HUD was displaying information beyond that, showing the green and blue squares of every fighter that the IFF could identify. An untrained eye would have been overwhelmed, but Sam was used to it.

"Viper 1, break! Fighter on your tail!"

Sam's eye turned about, catched the bright green tracer of several 30mm shells streaking past his cockpit. The pilot cursed and rolled, pulling back on his stick and trying his best to shake his pursuer. The airframe groaned at the sudden onset of G's. Black and red crawled at the fringes of his vision. He could see nothing but the sky directly before him. The master caution was still blaring. He was being painted, the MiG had him in his sights. The G-suit inflated, squeezing his legs and forcing blood back into his head.

It kept him conscious, but didn't do much else. With a grunt he reversed, turning the crushing positive G's into gutting negative ones. Blood rushed past his ears, leaving him deaf to everything except the roar of the twin turbofan engines behind him, and his own strained breathing. The fringes of his vision went from black to red, as blood rushed into his brain. The MiG followed, the much smaller fighter making the maneuver with greater ease.

"Viper 12, fox 2!"

Even through the thrum of the engines, Sam was able to feel the nearby burst of the missile. Easing off on his turn, he looked back to the cloud of wreckage that had once been the MiG.

"Now we're even Viper Lead!" Sayler's savior laughed, wagging his wings and diving away.

Sam could only giggle in exhausted relief. He was already feeling the strain of the dogfight, but he wasn't going to give in. He checked his radar once more, finding that his eagles were slowly gaining the advantage in numbers.

"This is AWACS to Viper flight. We have four contacts moving from the west. Radar profile matches for heavy bombers, Tu-22M's. Engage them before they enter their bombing pattern!"

Already Sam could see the approaching bombers on the radar. Heavy tactical bombers. They were there to raze Avon City.

"Backfires! Fuck, what are they thinking! They're going to flatten the entire city!" An Osean pilot cried.

"Calm down!" Sam shot toward him. "Deal with the fighters first, then engage the bombers. We can't stop them if we have half the Yuktobanian Air Force on our asses."

Sam's F-15 arched around with the yank of the stick. His eyes scanned the horizon, before looking down to his scope. The remaining MiGs had pulled them closer and closer to the Yuktobanian side of the river. He could see the shadows of tanks crawling about like flies on a corpse. He felt a pang of aggression. This was _his_ country. He would do whatever it took to keep it that way.

Then the flak came in. Thick and heavy.

Dozens of Yuktobanian SPAAGs, Shilkas and Tunguskas were all opening up, ribbons of cannon fire reaching into the sky. The master caution was screaming. Flak burst choked the sky. The enemy had drawn them this far deliberately.

"I'm hit! I'm losing hydraulic pressure!"

Sam jerked around, catching sight of the burning F-15. The stricken eagle was limping back toward friendly territory.

"You have to get out Viper 6! Those flames are spreading." Sam warned. The other fighter could break apart at any moment.

"I won't eject! Not behind enemy lines!" The younger man stubbornly cried, even as his eagle began to lose power.

"Do it Viper 6! Get out of there man." Sam wasn't going to let another man die. At least not like that.

"Fine… fine." Viper 6 finally relented. There was a flash, the pilot punching out. The eagle dropped into the ground, leaving behind a twisted wreck.

Sam let out a breath of relief. He was afraid he would lose another. Now he just hoped that Viper 6 would be able to make his way back to allied lines. He could slip away in the darkness. That was always an option. But regardless, none of it would matter if they failed to destroy those backfires. He shook the worry off.

"Alright Vipers- it's time to sweep the skies."

Sam punched it, his fighter thundering as it's afterburners ignited. He was watching, trying to catch sight of the remaining MiGs.

"Viper flight, those backfires are still incoming. ETA two minutes." AWACS reported.

Sam glanced down to his radar. The yuktobanian bombers were approaching fast- likely coming in on full afterburner. Sam grimaced. It wasn't looking good.

"Apollo to Viper! Enemy fighters are withdrawing!"

"So that's where they went." Sam commented to himself softly. The had gained air superiority over the battlefield.

"All remaining Viper's, form up on your flight leads and climb to angels 10 to intercept." Salyer ordered, pulling into a shallow climb while throttling up.

His eyes dropped down to the weapons panel. He looked over it, taking an inventory. Three AMRAAMS, four sidewinders. He was good for ammunition.

On each wing, two other eagles dropped. Viper 3 and Viper 4, both of whom had survived the battle with the MiG's. They looked over and saluted him.

"Blackjacks coming into range Viper flight. Engage at will." Apollo confirmed.

Ahead, framed against the night sky, were the bombers. At that distance, all Sam could see was the reflections of the moonlight, as well as the glow of their own engines.

"Ripple file at them!" John suggested, his fighter pulling ahead. He also had three of his four AMRAAMS left.

The fire control radar was struggling to find lock. The jamming was stronger now that they were moving away from the EF-111s. "Won't work, the missiles aren't gonna track. We're gonna need to get nice and close with sidewinders." Tyrese countered to the other pilot.

The F-15's and the Tu-22M's were coming closer and closer, the distance was shrinking. The merge was upon them.

"Forty seconds until they're over the target! They're not stopping!" John growled.

Sam narrowed his eyes and forged ahead. He could hear the sidewinder locking on… his head set whining… until finally the sweet tone of a strong lock serenaded him.

"Viper 1, fox 2, fox 2!" The missile jumped off the rack, white smoke trailing behind it. The other eagles fired, their loose formation lighting up with rocket ignition.

Each one of the swan-like bombers began to pop countermeasures. Some of the AIM-9L's took them, curving away and detonating among the flares. But enough hadn't. The remaining missiles found each target, detonating on proximity. One bomber was decapitated, its cockpit sheared clean off, leaving the rest of the craft to tumble into the earth, vanishing in a massive fireball. The other three tried to break, but were much too heavy to do a such thing. The second bomber found itself missing a wing, keeling over into an uncontrolled roll. The crew punched out before the rest of the aircraft disintegrated.

The other two simply ceased to exist, as their payloads were set off mid-air. The shock wave tore the air and left several hundred yards of forest flattened and smoldering. The explosion was so massive, it could be seen from Avon City, nearly four miles away.

The gust of wind from the shockwave shook the triumphant eagles, before finally fading into nothing. Muffled cheers echoed over the radios. There was no point in trying to confirm kills in that- they had won as a squadron.

"Confirm splash on the bombers. Good work Viper flight. Cover the Wild Weasels, and then RTB. Those grunts owe everyone of you a drink." Apollo's voice was light, and slightly weak, as if he had been holding his breath.

Captain Salyer led his F-15s back toward friendly territory, passing the swing-wing fighter bombers along the way. The EF-111's, with their AGM-88 HARM missiles, would seek out and destroy any source of radio-emission within a certain frequency- such as fire control radars and air search radars. The ravens flew by in waves, missile contrails painted beneath them as they systematically dismantled the Yuke air defenses. Fireballs dotted the landscape as the well hidden missile control radars were reduced to smoldering craters.

"This is Electric Fox to Apollo- all ordnance expended, mission complete." By two's and by three's, the camouflage painted bombers turned and made for home, wagging their wings as they passed over allied lines. The Vipers followed above and behind, escorting them home. The OAF had not abandoned the skies over Osea. They were here to stay.

~oO-Oo~

/0432 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/Highway 85 crossing, Avon/

The battle on the ground had not paused for the battle in the air. Lieutenant Davis and his company were still fighting desperately to prevent the crossing. Infantry dove back and forth, crawling through the mud, only exposing themselves so that they could open fire.

"Fall back! Fall back to the second line!" Davis cried, shouldering his rifle and sending half of his magazine downrange.

There was a cry. A young guardsman had been shot, a 7.62 round shattering his pelvis and leaving him sprawled in the mud at the Osean officer's feet. Blood was pooling through his shirt.

Without missing a beat, Davis grabbed the boy's collar and began dragging him through the muck toward the second line, ignoring the bullets cracking by. He focused on looking ahead- back to his country. His face was screwed with determination.

"Please… I want to go home." The boy was sobbing, his hands at this hip, dark crimson pooling around his gloved hands. "I want my mom…" Agony marred his face.

"You're going home kid…" Davis panted. "And I'm going to make sure you have a home to go back too." They had to climb a large hill to get to the second line, exposed to enemy fire. Once they crossed the ledge, they would be relatively protected. Davis pushed himself, even as the rest of his men charged past him, diving into the safety of the trenches at the hill's peak. They were close. With a final heave, the pair fell over the lip of the trench, rolling to the feet of the men manning it. Davis stood, out of breath "Get him an evac. Someone."

The guardsman had fallen unconscious now. A medic with a stretcher was nearby- with the help of the men around them, they rolled the wounded soldier onto it. He would be taken to an ambulance, likely one of the M113's of the hospital unit, before being evaced further east. If he made it that far.

Davis wiped his bloody hands. "Where's Captain Adiz!" The rest of his shattered company was trickling into the line, stumbling around in search of officers and sergeants.

"I'm right here." The dark skinned Adiz shouted from the very bottom of the hill. It was here, sheltered from direct fire from the enemy, that the rest of the battalion's vehicles were deployed. All of their M113 APC's, as well as their command vehicles.

Davis rushed down, slipping several times on the rain slicked ground.

"Captain! Things aren't looking good. Our line is falling apart. Is Charlie company still holding our line of retreat?"

Adiz sighed. "I wish I had good news for you. An enemy air assault battalion dropped behind our lines and captured the highway. Charlie company was torn apart."

Davis's eyes drooped. "Fuck…"

Adiz nodded, his own eyes dark. "I've already radio brigade. They're trying to get-"

"They're crossing! The enemy are crossing!" Adiz was interrupted by the shocked shouting of another soldier.

Davis finally looked back. The once placid waters of the Avon were choked with armored vehicles- BMP's and BTR's, churning the gray waters as they crossed. For at least a mile in each direction he could see them. They resembled the tadpoles that had swarmed in the crystal waters of Davis's home… only infinitely more lethal.

Adiz looked to Davis, his amber eyes worn. "And now this. We need to pull back into the city- we have to make a stand. With the highway cut off, there's no way that we can flee.

We're cut off from our armor support too. Avon is in a pocket now- we're trapped. We either break out, or we die here- either way, the enemy is gonna get through." The M-60 was chattering again, it's staccato roar piercing over the incessant tapping of the rain. The Yukes responded with cannonfire, forcing the gunners back down as shells burst with cracks of light and smoke overhead.

The Lieutenant took a moment. His gloved and still bloody hands gripped his rifle tightly. With every deep and rattling breath he took, he was considering what to do next. His body felt like it was being crushed underneath the weight of circumstance. Emotion fought rationalism as he struggled to make a decision. With a final sigh, he looked the Captain in the eye.

"What's left of my company will remain behind. You and your men will mount up and head for the city."

Adiz's eyes went wide. "Wait.. you'd do that?" Thunder cracked overhead. "You're a very brave and stupid man, Lieutenant. But throwing away your life like this-"

Davis snorted. "Cut the shit Captain. We either both die, or one of us does. Pragmatically speaking, you have more men and more heavy weapons. My company is a speed bump- so that's exactly what we'll be. We'll cover your retreat and make them pay for every inch of our soil they take."

Adiz's eyes widened for a moment, before the man sighed. "I can't argue with that lieutenant. Good luck. We'll make sure this sacrifice doesn't go to waste." He held out his hand.

Davis took it, shaking it vigorously. "You better not. Cause I promise you I'll haunt you for every single day of your pitiful life if you do." He let slip a confident smile, and Adiz laughed softly. "Well, I'm sure you'd keep that promise." The Captain only half-joked, before growing serious once more.

Adiz took a step back and saluted the junior officer. Davis stiffened and responded in kind. "Goodbye Captain."

Adiz said nothing, simply nodding, before turning curtly, finding his First Sergeant.

"A-Company! On me!" He and his First Sergeant rallied their troops. In an orderly manner, each and every one of his platoons left their defensive positions, breaking into squads. The M113's were ready and waiting, rear ramps down, engines idling. A-company mounted up, before moving in column down the dirt road leading to Avon City. Davis watched them, ignoring the desperate gunfire behind him. The crossing was still happening. And there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

"Sergeant Pope!" Davis called, walking back toward the peak of the hill. It was too loud, however. The sound of battle was drowning him out. So instead, he began looking, before catching him in sight. The exhausted soldier pushed himself a little bit harder, climbing the hill for the second time. Looking back toward the river, he could see burning and sinking armored fighting vehicles. The AT-4's used to destroy them lied expended and smoking on the ground. The survivors continued to churn across the oil streaked river.

"Sergeant Pope!" He called again.

"Yes lieutenant!" He got an answer this time.

Davis's first sergeant approached, his helmet scratched and slightly askew after having been struck by shrapnel.

"Get a message out to all the NCO's. We are to hold this line to the death. Surrender is not an option." Davis felt a dull stab of guilt in his stomach. They would die because of him. There was nothing that he could do. Though, the guilt lasted but a moment. Death, he no longer feared. His men would understand. All that mattered, was to take as many of the Yukes with them as possible.

"Yes sir." The man's voice was grave, but obedient. He dutifully rushed off to tell the platoon leaders, leaving Davis to consider his own actions. He was sacrificing forty-two men and women out of spite to the enemy. Right and wrong was no longer in question. There was only death.

He looked to the sky. Nothing could save them now.

~oO-Oo~

/0447 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/Route 74 crossing, Avon/

William Fairchild cried out in adrenaline at another successful kill, watching as a Yuktobanian tank erupted in flame. Their second kill of the night. Two more rings for the barrel.

As he was positioning to fire at another target, a call came through on the integrated communications system . He looked toward the radio set, switching on the receiver.

"Go ahead." He answered.

"Captain Fairchild, this is brigade command. Avon City is in danger of being encircled. Highway 85 is in enemy hands. We need your company to engage and destroy all enemy units on the road into the city, and open up a route of escape for any units still trapped inside."

William checked his map, before checking his GPS monitor. His unit were currently five miles south-west of the now destroyed bridge, on a bend in the river. They were also only two miles northeast of the city. If the city fell, not only would they be flanked, the entire defensive line would collapse.

"Roger that Brigade, we will move to retake the highway. Where is our rally point? What kind of support we should we expect?"

The other members of his crew had stopped fighting to watch him. Annoyance bubbled within him, but he ignored it.

"We have a company of heavy infantry waiting for you at rally point Sierra Five. Expect a flight of Thunderbolts as well. Air force finally got their shit together. As soon as you arrive, begin your attack. We need that road, do you understand?" The brigade commander's tone suggested that failure was not an option.

"We copy brigade. Moving now."

"Roger that Captain. Good luck. Out."

The radio made an odd snapping sound as the transmission was cut. William already had his finger on the map, looking over the predetermined rally points. Directly east of Avon City, under a highway overpass.

"Sergeant Wu, bringing us back on the road, follow my directions." The tank shuddered and began to reverse. William was already changing his frequency to the company wide channel.

"All timberwolves, we have a new priority mission. Highway 85 has fallen to the enemy. We are to roll in and take it back. Follow your platoon leaders to rally point Sierra Five. Good luck, out."

Michelle wiped a stray hair from her face, looking her commander in the eye. "Are we in any shape to go on the offensive?" Her voice held a taste of suspicion.

The tank rattled as it traversed the rutted and muddy road. "Doesn't matter. Regardless if we can or not, we were given the order, and we're gonna see it through. End of discussion."

"Yes sir." She said back curtly.

Fairchild rolled his eyes at the young woman's attitude, returning his attention to the battle around him.

Through his night vision scope, he could already see the desperate fighting. Across several hills, flashes of shell bursts and ribbons gunfire were visible. the light show was humbling. On both sides soldiers were fighting for their lives.

The dirt road turned now onto a paved one, one of the smaller roads that would eventually connect to Highway 85, one of the two main traffic arteries in the Avon area.

His company was in column, something that made the old Captain a little nervous. To enemy aircraft, they would be a sitting duck. With hills and trees on each side of the road, there was no way that they could spread out either.

"Only one more mile to the rally point." The rather moderately sized city of Avon was now visible through the trees. The tallest building had only been fifteen stories tall. At least, before it had been destroyed. The city was a shattered shell of its former self.

The road came to an intersection. Waiting there was an MP with a sign. He directed the column to the left, onto an exit ramp. On his right, blocking the road, was the wreckage of an Mi-24, shot down during the initial assault. Through his night vision, William could see the charred bodies within. He wished he hadn't looked.

The rally point was around the bend. The M2A3 Bradley armored fighting vehicles of the 1st Brigade, heavy infantry, squatted on each side of the road. Infantry lounged against them trying to find shelter from the rain. The vehicle commanders inspected their machines. As the tanks approached, many of them looked up, watching the column push through. William stood, popping his hatch so he could see them with his own eyes.

A soldier came running along them, before he hopped onto the slow moving tank. captain's bars, blacked out for sniper protection, were sown into his vest.

"Are you Captain Fairchild?" He roared out over the shrieking engine.

"I would be him!" William replied. "Who are you!"

"I'm Captain Scott Anthony! Commander of Delta-company!" Fairchild nodded and grabbed his intercom. "Sergeant Wu, halt!" The tank came to a stop, as did the rest of the column. Fairchild pulled himself from the turret, following Scott as he jumped off the tank. The pair walked across the asphalt and through the rain, toward the company command post. The command post was a M577 CV tied to an external generator; ponchos and tent pieces hung off the vehicle's armored sides, keeping dry the men and equipment that were so vital to the company's operation.

"So, would you happen to have a plan?" William asked, glancing back toward the burning city.

"As a matter of fact I do." Scott replied. "Your tanks are going to advance up the highway and engage the enemy airborne tanks. A BMD should be no match for an Abrams, right?" The younger man chuckled. "My infantry will be mounted up and following close behind. As the need arises, we will dismount and engage the enemy. Once we break through the initial line of defense, we will stop and wait for new orders. As it is, we don't have a status on the troops still in Avon itself. We will be fighting an elite VDV company, they're the best the enemy has to offer. Your tanks will be invaluable."

William looked down at the other officers map. "And we'll have the OAF overhead? Any idea what they'll be packing?"

Scott nodded his head. "Four A-10's from the National Guard. Not sure on the ordnance though. Probably Mavericks. And of course they have their guns. Either way we'll have more than enough to take them on."

Scott's optimism was infectious. "And of course you guys have your mortars for close support." William smiled, looking back over. "I'll get my tanks ready to move. As soon as I give the signal, we're gonna begin the assault. Speed and initiative is important- we need to catch them before they have a chance to fortify their position."

"The what are we waiting for? Let's mount up." Scott and Fairchild went their separate ways, both commanders heading to their respective vehicles. The twenty-six tanks of Alpha-company, the timberwolves, waited, sitting in column. Their armored hides were scuffed and scratched, the dark olive drab paint burned and scratched in many places. However, on every tank's barrel, the motif of the howling wolf remained undamaged. It was finally time to strike back, to take back lost territory for the first time in the war.

William dropped himself into the commander's seat, and left the hatch open this time. The M2 Browning on the turret roof would be his weapon of choice for this battle. With a single move, he adjusted his mouthpiece, and double checked the radio antenna.

"All tanks, form into line abreast. Charge forward on my orders." The tanks broke up, spreading out over the width of the eight lane highway. The smaller M2s did the same behind them. Engines roared over the thunder of the storm.

"All platoons in position. We're ready to go Timberwolf 1." William let a cruel grin slip to his fight.

"All tanks, Charge straight ahead! Stop for nothing! We're gonna run 'em down!"

Engines howled and tracks rattled into motion. The 70 ton beasts jumped forward, accelerating with seemingly impossible swiftness. The road beneath trembled at the might of the charge.

Fairchild narrowed his eyes and dropped down his goggles, watching as they left the overpass and approached the city. In a roar of thunder, four cross shaped aircraft howled over head, straight wings laden with bombs and rockets. The warthogs had arrived. They remained above for only a heartbeat, before vanishing behind the hills ahead. Echoing through the storm, the distinctive rip of the Avenger. "We got air support!" William growled. "This is our day. Crush them all!"

The wet air was charged with aggression. Hundreds of tons of heavy metal was smashing through the dawn. Up the final hill that separated them and the enemy.

"Enemy troops directly ahead!" The call came over the radio.

The Yuktobanian paratrooper's line was already in disarray. A BMD was burning, it's turret lying fifty yards away. A victim of the thunderbolts. Yuke infantry laid around it, hands over their helmets. A few were stumbling to their feet, dazed. The other tanks were still lined up, their hulls angled to provide cover for the surviving infantry. Fagot ATGM's had been set on tripods, hidden behind burned out vehicles. Machine guns poked from shell craters and fox holes. The only thing standing between them and the wave of steel was a hastily built road block.

"All tanks! Tear them apart!" Machine guns sputtered and tore, sending bright crimson tracers across the pavement. The IFV's behind the tanks joined in with their 25mm chain guns, sending high-explosive fragmentation rounds into the mix. A group of Yuke infantry were caught in the barrage, torn apart by the large bits of shrapnel.

One of the BMD's fired a missile, striking an M1 in the upper glacis. There was a flash of light and smoke- but the tank did not stop. The behemoth charged through the flame, screaming, guns blazing. Only a deep scorch mark provided evidence of the hit.

"Don't stop for shit! Keep charging until they're all dead!"

Timberwolf 2 fired its main gun. The 120mm HEAT round made contact with steel, turning one of the lightly armoured BMD's into a funeral pyre.

"We got them on the run!" Fairchild whooped. From outside, he could smell the battle. Cordite in the air. William's gloved hands gripped the handles of his machine gun, as he swung it around to the sides of the road. Up ahead was the causeway bridge- once they reached it, they would no longer have to worry about being flanked. But until then, Yuktobanian troops on either side of the road with ATGM's were a real danger to his tanks.

The A-10's were swooping around for another pass. Two came in low, their olive drab skins masking them against the dark clouds, howling like wolves. The sky was split by their Avenger cannons, pavement and mud kicking in great geysers before steel met steel, a BMD finding itself riddled with fist sized holes. No crew members bailed out of the light tank as it began to burn. The warthogs swooped down to confirm the kill, before vanishing once more into the night sky.

"We can't let those fly-boys get all of the glory! Push harder!" Will growled into his head set. "Michelle, target left! Identify!"

"Identified, enemy tank!" The gunner called from the turret, lining her sights on the lightly armored airborne tank.

"Fire!" Will barked, bracing for the main gun's concussion.

"On the waaaaaaaay!"

The shell streaked through the air at over 1,000 meters per second, striking the hostile tank clean in the frontal glacis, even on the move. The turret popped in a massive conflagration, the aluminum hull of the Yuke tank peeling apart as if it were made of tinfoil.

"Infantry, dismount!" Anthony was calling over his own radio. The Bradleys came to a stop, using the hulking forms of the Abrams to cover themselves. Their rear ramps dropped, and the elite troops of the First Army Brigade poured out, rifles popping and machine guns lighting the night. Yuke paratroops were dropping one by one, even as they made a spirited defense of the road block.

Will wasn't one to be left out. He swung his fifty around, depressing the firing stud and sending thumb sized tracer rounds into the enemy lines. The enemy soldiers ducked down to avoid the storm of lead and phosphorus, leaving an opening for the infantry to approach the road block.

"Someone knock down that wall!" A sergeant called over his radio. "Ram the fucking thing!"

William laughed, a glint in his eye. It felt so _good_ to be back on the offensive. "Sergeant Wu, gun it! Get us through that wall!" The tracks squealed over the pavement as the young driver pushed the throttle, finally allowing the powerful Honeywell turbine to reach its maximum RPM. The 70 ton main battle tank was more than a match for the wall of bulldozed rubble. The entire thing came down in a heap, and the Osean infantry were finally able to advance towards the enemy's main line of defense. However, they still had fifty yards of mostly open pavement to cover, ground that was being pelted by small arms fire.

William grunted, swinging his heavy machine gun around. The last of the BMD's had been reduced to smoldering wrecks, leaving the Yuke infantry with no armor support. The enemy were pulling back, sprinting for whatever meagre cover they could find. From behind, the Osean shock infantry advanced, following the hulk of the tanks armor, occasionally kneeling to fire at the retreating Yuktobanians.

"Why don't they just surrender?" A voice asked from the turret. William looked down, his eye's meeting Michelle's.

"I couldn't tell you." William responded coldly. "But I don't care. The more we kill now, the better." His fingers depressed the firing stud again, hitting the retreating paratroopers in the back. The fifty caliber round was overkill for this kind of work, rendering human bodies into little more than bits of jagged flesh. Yuktobanian corpses littered the highway, their blood pooling in the rain. "Regardless of what happens- just keep going forward. Keep going forward until we drive them from our country once and for all."

The warthogs overflew them once more, guns tearing the pavement apart. There had been at least a hundred Yuktobanian defenders when the charge had began- they had been reduced to a few dozens in a matter of minutes. The survivors, despite the shock of the charge, refused to give in, tenaciously holding on to every inch of ground. Rifle rounds pittered harmlessly against tank armor as they returned fire. William wore no expression as he swiveled his machine gun around, painting the concrete median black and red with human blood.

The tanks were not invulnerable, however. A Fagot AT missile struck Timberwolf 1-4 as it followed the company commander's tank. The shaped charge projectile penetrated the relatively thinner side armor with ease, setting the ammunition in the turret bustle on fire. The tank ground to a halt, it's turret blow-out panels failing as designed, projecting the force of the ammunition explosion out and away from the crew. A great gout of molten metal showered over the pavement for a handful of violent seconds, before the last of the ammunition was destroyed.

"Fuck! Timberwolf 1-4, what's your status?" William swung the MG around in search of the soldiers responsible for the kill.

The radio remained silent for a moment. Fairchild was holding his breath.

"Timberwolf 1-1…" There was a terrible retching sound as timberwolf 1-4's commander coughed. "We're alive. Greg's badly burned and I can't… I can't see. Please… we're done."

"Evacuate! Get out of the damn thing!" William snarled to them, his eye catching the scurrying form of the escaping Yuke AT team. His fingers came down on the trigger, the M2 bursting into life. Crimson tracers framed his target, before they vanished in cloud of mud and gore. Their ATGM launcher remained forgotten on its tripod, still stained with the blood of its former operators.

"I can't move… it's dark." 1-4's TC was sobbing now, her voice cracking. Her tank was still smoldering, the entire rear half of the turret blackened.

William grimaced, looking around. A squad of soldiers were following his tank closely on either side. But there was no way they would be able to hear him over the shrill growl of the engine, or over the thunderstorm of battle.

"Sergeant Wu, halt." William ordered, his eyes not leaving the infantry sergeant. Just as he had hoped, the sudden stop of the tank did catch his attention. The soldier looked up, catching William's glare.

"Go to that tank! Get the crew out!" He shouted, patting the side of the turret and then pointing to the wreck of 1-4, which was being ignored. They must have been under the impression that no one survived the blast. Luckily, the sergeant seemed to understand what he was mouthing, as he turned to his men and quickly ordered them to check on 1-4. Two rushed over, clambering on the still red-hot steel. One jumped back, before trying again from a different angle. The other was already on the turret, his arms in the hatch as he pulled the wounded TC out. She was alive, even with the burns.

Fairchild let out a sigh of relief. Under most circumstances, that crew would have been literal toast- but their machine had saved them, hopefully to fight another day. Tanks could be replaced, but men were valuable… particularly experienced ones.

"Sergeant Wu, get us moving again. Only one more thing in our way." A quick affirmative, and the armored beast shuddered into movement, clearing the last 10 yards to the line of wrecked BMD's. The tank was more the heavy enough to shove them out of the way, clearing the way for the rest of the column to follow.

"The road to Avon is clear!" William reported, his eyes searching for any enemy stragglers. The remaining paratroops vanished, melting into the swamps around the highway. Osean soldiers followed after, mopping up any remaining resistance.

"I copy Timberwolf." Captain Anthony reported from his command vehicle, before relaying the news to Brigade. As they waited for new orders, the column came to a halt, engines idling. There was no response at first, leaving William a little time to decompress. He dropped down into the turret, closing the hatch behind him as he did.

"That went well." He sighed, exhausted. The adrenaline high was beginning to fade, and his body was screaming at him to sleep, if only for a moment.

"Too well." James shook his head, eyes glued to his vision slits. "Brigade said this was an air assault brigade… and they always come with gunship support, either Havocs or Hinds. We haven't seen a single one, besides that one wreck on the road. Where are they? The weather isn't _that_ bad."

A hole developed in the pit of William's stomach. Looking back to his hatch, he cursed. "Fuck… they could arrive at any moment. We're sitting ducks!" His hand gripped his radio transmitter tightly.

"Captain Anthony! Tell your men to be ready with stingers! I have a sickening feeling that the Yukes ain't done with us just yet. Their gunships are nowhere to be found. They could be creeping up on us as we speak"

There was no answer for a moment, before the infantry captain responded. "I copy Timberwolf 1-1. We got our eyes open, and stingers are deployed. We'll keep the gnats off ya."

"Thanks Scott." William breathed, allowing a momentary breach in discipline. The Warthogs had torn the enemy tanks apart- he did not want to be on the receiving end of similar destruction. He would have preferred a few Vulcans or Linebackers for cover, but some well trained infantrymen with stingers could be very, very effective. Not even a hind could take a direct hit and expect to remain effective. Keep flying maybe, but fighting was a whole nothing matter.

William's radio pinged not a moment later. It was Scott. "Uhh… good news and bad news Captain." The captain was already opening his hatch, cringing as he was battered by a salvo of rain drops. "Good news is that you were right… bad news is also that you were right. Brigade told me that they have reports of several Mi-24's heading to our position. Get your tanks moving, we'll do our best to bring them down!"

Will cursed, growling the very same report to his own tank crews. "All tanks, spread out and find cover! Get off the road!" Engines shrieked as drivers throttled up, tanks grinding from place. Their weight seemed to hold them back now, when moving quickly was so important.

Fairchild held the edge of the hatch, propping himself head and shoulders out of the turret. He would brave the elements for a little while longer if it meant seeing the enemy choppers before they saw him. He was not alone, as every tank commander worth his or her salt did the same.

"Chopper on the south side of the road!"

The captain brought his MG around, his eyes scanning the southern sky. The sheets of rain obscured his vision, but he could faintly see the spectral silhouettes of four Mi-24 Hind gunships, rearmed and ready to fight. Each gunship carried four AT-6 "Spiral" anti-tank missiles, as well as two rocket pods. More than enough firepower to absolutely annihilate the entire company.

"Come on you Yuke bastards. Get closer so I can shoot you." His fingers twitched, the unconscious need to fire biting at him. They had him in range, he knew. The hunter had became the hunted.

The first Hind swooped about, followed by the second. They were splitting into pairs, attacking on either side of the highway. There would be no escape, no piece of cover that could protect them from both flights.

One tank commander blinked, opening fire despite still being out of range. His tracers arched through the night's sky, before vanishing into the haze.

"Timberwolf 2-2, hold fire, you're giving away your position!" His platoon leader snarled. But by that time, it was too late. A pair of AT-6's had already been launched, homing in on 2-2. There was a moment of gut wrenching silence before one of the shaped charge projectiles struck, penetrating directly into the crew compartment.

There was no cook off this time, only licking flame. The commander was blown from the turret, his legs gone, landing unceremoniously on the road side. Will only hoped that the rest of the crew met a quick end.

The Hind gunners did not pause to celebrate the kill. They switched to their thermal sights, hovering about like furious hornets, strafing left in right in search of a new target. Not even the darkness could hide them now. The landscape was alive with Osean troops, both the smaller blobs of infantry, or the larger forms of armored vehicles.

One such blob saw himself as no target. The Osean infantrymen poked from his cover, a stinger slung to his shoulder. The IR MANPAD was capable of knocking a Hind out of the fight, but only with a direct hit- a glancing blow would not be effective.

The man fired his missile, before dropping the launcher and diving into the mud. The small projectile tracked clean, practically invisible in the night. Despite this, the targeted Hind performed a sudden maneuver, clearly alerted to the fact that it had been fired upon. The stinger was not tricked, adjusting course- homing directly on the red hot exhaust ports of the gunships engines.

There was a flash in the night as the proximity warhead went off, right above the cargo compartment. Hot shrapnel tore through metal flesh, fatally damaging the helicopters port engine. It failed with the sound of repeated compressor stalls, halving the amount of available power for the rotors. Flame glowed in the engine cowling, threatening the other engine.

The yuktobanian pilot struggled to maintain control. Each movement he made seemed to worsen his problem, airspeed and altitude dropping with oil pressure. There was no way he could save the chopper- he would be forced to land. With little choice, he auto-rotated down, riding the last of rotors momentum to make a crash landing in the swamp.

The other three Hinds were not impressed. The two on the north side of the road strafed left, bearing down like vultures. Their gunners aligned their sights and fired, a barrage of rockets pummeling the highway. The scattered and unarmored infantry suffered greatly, steel shards tearing flesh and shattering bones. The surviving soldiers hugged any cover they could find, suppressed by the ferocity of the assault.

His tank may have been invulnerable to such rockets, but Will was not. He dove down into the turret, slamming the hatch down behind him. Every strike they took damaged optics and unarmored equipment. Blinded, they would have no means of fighting back until they could repair the damage.

"Fuck! We need those warthogs back, those Hinds are tearing us to shreds!" He snarled into his radio set, praying that the radio antenna had not been knocked out. The gods must have been smiling on him, as he quickly received a garbled response.

"...oger… at timbe… olf one." The radio cut into static as soon as the message was through. Now they were deaf. Fairchild growled angrily, looking through his cracked vision blocks. Whether or not he lived and died was now in the hands of others. The man didn't know if he should have been worried or relieved.

The Mi-24's were pressing their advantage. With the stingers suppressed, they were clear to make closer passes on the company. Cannon fire stitched across armor steel, and more AT-6's found targets. A Bradley burst into flame after being struck by one of the air launched ATGM's, its turret popping like a cork. The aluminum armor melted under the intense heat of an ammunition fueled, destroying the corpses of the crew in the process.

The second Hind hovered over the ruins of the road block, its chin turret slowly strafing left and right, raining down death upon the infantry. No amount of cover could protect the exposed soldiers, and with thermal sights, they could not hide either. Some soldiers attempted to return to their personnel carriers, only to be killed as they moved. Others searched for cover in the road embankment- only to find it painfully exposed to enemy fire. Osean corpses littered the road, joining the Yuktobanian paratroopers.

A third tank erupted in flame- struck directly on the roof by an ATGM. No crew members escaped, leaving the stricken wreck to burn. Frustrated infantry began to return fire with their small arms, 5.56 and 7.62 rounds pittering harmlessly off of the Hind's impressive armor. They were helpless- doomed to perish because of a command oversight.

One ambitious tank commander, sick of waiting to die, swung his turret around; pointing his main gun at one of the low flying choppers. His gunner tracked it for a moment before firing. The HEAT shell missed entirely, streaking off into the night's sky. The targeted Hind swung around, lining up for a shot with its AT missiles…

...Only to be swatted from the sky by a swarm of 30mm shells. The fatally crippled gunship stuttered in the air, thick, oily smoke billowing from the perforated engine compartment. It spun several times as the tail rotor failed, slamming into the pavement and bursting into flame. A cheer went out among the Osean soldiers as the Thunderbolts flashed overhead. The four ship formation split into two, coming around on either side of the highway to chase off the remaining Hinds. The Mi-24's saw no reason to hang around, peeling away, the 'hogs in pursuit.

"What the hell just happened?" Michelle's voice startled Will, his leg twitching. The captain dropped down, his hand on his knee. He had nearly kicked her. "I'm not sure… sounded like something big just blew up." The blindness was already getting to him. "I'm sick of waiting- I'm going to check." Will forced the damaged hatch open, heaving himself out and onto the turret roof. His muscles screamed for relief- every movement left a rolling agony that refused to abate. But Will was not deterred. He had to see what had happened.

The highway was a scene of desolation- craters marred the landscape, and smoldering wrecks cluttered the roadside. William counted no less than seven Bradleys and three Abrams that had been knocked out. Flames licked at their corpses, fed by fuel and flesh. Those flames held him, blinding him to the darkness beyond. All he could see… fire. All consuming, living. There was no warmth in them. The rain was forgotten. Nothing could wash him of this.

William jumped down, landing on unsteady feet. Each step was a labor, muscles screaming. He couldn't breath- the rain kept the smoke down low, choking him. Even the scent of the air had changed. Burning rubber, burning skin, melded together in a toxic cloud. All the man could do was bring a hand to his mouth, coughing violently. Any concern for his own safety was gone. He just needed to see. He needed to look upon the devastation he'd caused.

So many were dead. And it was all his fault. His mistake -forgetting about the hostile choppers until it was too late- had doomed them. Now he had to endure the suffering he had caused. Wounded men called for their mothers as stunned but otherwise unhurt soldiers milled about aimlessly. The only light came from the burning tanks, painting an eerie dance of shadows on both the living and the dead. And after all this- William could dare call it victory. What was victory, he could ask. All he knew was that it wasn't this.

~oO-Oo~

/0532 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/Highway 85 crossing, Avon/

"Fix bayonets! This is it!" Glimmering blades shined in the night, men priming for what would be the most important, and likely final, moment in their lives.

"Prepare to charge! May our sacrifice never be forgotten!" Bradley Davis stood over the kill zone, immersed in the consequences of his actions. Blood and soot stained his face, his left eye swollen shut from a rifle butt. He was ready to accept his own imminent demise. There was no turning back. The final stand of Bravo Company. Thirty-six men, standing shoulder to shoulder against a force ten times their size. They had no more heavy weapons, no more machine guns, no more grenades and only handful of rifle rounds.

There was no more falling back. Their backs were against the wall. Ahead of them stood the might of the Yuktobanian army. BMP's and BTR's, crawling through the mud, crossing the Avon in ever thickening waves. Infantry, marching up the bank, sending wave after wave of rifle fire after them. Tanks, prowling on the far bank, guns leveled and ready to shell them into oblivion. There was no hope.

"Charge!" Davis snarled, every fiber of his bruised and broken body swelling with adrenaline. His legs kicked, ignoring the exhaustion that fought to end him. The voices of his men were raised in one final, mighty cheer. Together, in a single line shoulder to shoulder, they charged, just as the infantry of old. They would die, but they would die doing what they did best. Maybe their sacrifice would mean nothing, maybe the Yuktobanians would advance anyways. But that was no reason to give up. There was no surrender- not here. Not ever again.

Flesh met flesh in a great conflagration of violence. Heavy Osean bodies, bruised and battered, struck the first line of Yuktobanian infantry, breaking like a wave on a sea wall. There were screams as men dropped into the mud, rolling over one another in brutal hand to hand combat. The Yuktobanian tanks and IFV's were forced to hold fire, as the two lines descended into a melee.

Davis thrust his bayonet into the chest of a Yuke sergeant, crying out as he did so. The enemy soldier gurgled pathetically as blood rushed through his throat, spilling from his gaping mouth. He did not last very long, as the Osean lieutenant unceremoniously slid him off of his blade with a boot. In a single fluid motion, he turned, raising his rifle and firing a quick three rounds into another Yuktobanian. The man dropped, blood pouring from his wounds. Davis looked up from his kill, searching the line- which no longer resembled a line at all. Individual soldiers fought for survival, crawling over one another in a struggle for superiority. Behind, the BMP's continued to advance, but thankfully held their fire.

"Get close to them! Make them pay for every inch in blood!" Davis's boot caught into the muck as he sprinted forward, bullets striking around him, even grazing, but always eluding that final killing blow. Others were not so lucky. One Osean was struck in the face, caving it in and sending his brains to the mud behind him. Another was hit in the abdomen, heaving him over, his body sprawling into the mud. The charge, that single moment of momentum, was faltering as more and more men were killed, stopped dead by the sheer disparity in firepower.

But the survivors did not turn back. Every man had accepted within him that this would be his last day. Bradley growled softly to himself, raising his rifle and firing into the back of an enemy officer, killing him instantly. Every life he took, was another that the Yukes were forced to accept. Every inch of his soil they took, would be soaked in the blood of their own sons and daughters. If he died, they died- that was his final wish. To bring down as many as he could.

As he fought, another Osean was killed, a knife driven through her throat. Her screams faded into rasping, gurgling sobs as her life faded. Regardless of what they did, the Yuktobanian advance continued. The resolve of the survivors was finally beginning to falter, two of the younger members of the company turning to run, only to be shot in the back.

"Come on cowards! There is no turning back!" Adrenaline and rage was what fueled Davis, pushing him to continue going even as his body began to fail on him. Muscles tore and bones creaked, every cell in his body was begging for rest. Through sheer force of will, Davis pushed on, boot by boot, raising his rifle to pick off another hostile soldier- only to be violently thrown to the mud as something struck him with the force of a supersonic a sledge hammer.

"Fucking hell!" Davis choked, his rifle forgotten. He curled, looking down to his stomach, and nearly vomiting at what he saw. A bullet had torn cleanly through his back and front, beneath the lip of his armor vest. His legs did not respond to his brain's call. No feeling, no sensation. Simple numbness. Looking up, the man finally knew his time had come. The round had torn through his spine, cutting any connection he had to his lower extremities. His chest and stomach was soaked in creeping crimson, and the seeping cold of what was a warm summer rain was beginning to take him. Without help, he would die- and there was no help. No medics, no friends, no comrades. He would take no more with him. The Yuktobanian force had crushed them. Davis was all that was left. All but one of Bravo Company, 41st Mechanized Infantry, perished at the light of dawn.

The sky above was finally beginning to clear. The rain gently abated, the torrent replaced by a drizzle. To the east, the sun was rising over Osea- the amber glow of morning just barely touching the landscape below. With a single hand, the fading soldier attempted to reach for his home. Had he failed it? He would never know. But as the creeping darkness of the final sleep overtook him, he knew one thing- tomorrow would be coming.

~oO-Oo~

/0556 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/1,000 feet above Highway 85, Avon/

The coming of the dawn gave the attack pilots of the 81st Tactical Fighter Squadron plenty of light to see their targets. The two A-10A thunderbolts, both Air National Guard, had been sent to support operations along the Avon, flying low to directly engage the myriad of armored vehicles attempting to force a crossing. So far the enemy had struck at two points- the ruins of the Route 74 bridge, and the Highway 85 causeway bridge. It seemed that even the Yuktobanians were beginning to suffer from attrition- earlier in the war they would have been able to force crossings in multiple areas, not just two. Regardless, they had a significant numerical advantage in those specific points. The Highway 85 crossing point was in the midst of falling- the infantry company charged with its defense had been annihilated, leaving the banks clear for crossing. Route 74 had held, thankfully, but for how long was anyone's guess.

1st Lieutenant Rebecca "Werewolf" Maitland was a veteran of many battles. From Cape Landers to Avon she and her squadron had fought valiantly to stem the Red Army. Her thunderbolt's nose was painted with the silhouettes of many tanks, right above the shark mouth that every fighter in their squadron bore. Like many members of the Osean Armed Forces, she was sick of retreating. The Red Army would be stopped at the Avon- not one step back!

"Jester 1-2, making my run." She called, cutting the throttle and kicking the rudder around. Below, flowing from North to South, the glimmering waters of the Avon- as well as the skittering tanks and APC's of the Yuktobanian army, massing upon their bridgehead. Sitting ducks.

"Guns guns guns!" Her finger depressed the trigger, the massive gatling gun nestled in the warthogs nose rumbling to life. 30mm cannon rounds stitched along the earth, raking BMP's and BTR's until all that was left were torn and burning wrecks. With a crazed giggle she pulled away, popping a stream flares to throw off any IR lock from enemy SA-7s. The larger and more dangerous SA-6s and SA-2s had been destroyed by wild weasels already, leaving them only to worry about low altitude AA.

"Successful run, I count kills on two BTR's and a BMP. Come around for another pass Jester 1-2." The leader of Jester flight, Captain Philbert "Doorman" Labelle, was flying high circles above the rest of the flight, having already expending all of his ordnance.

"Rog, coming around for another pass." Rebecca pulled back on the stick and level out at 5,000 feet, looking back over her shoulder at the river streaming below. The morning light glinted off of the waves, a kaleidoscope in the dawn. Any closer, and she would have been able to see the blood and oil flowing down stream.

"There's a group of bridging tanks off on your left." Doorman reported, swooping over and dropping a set of flares over the offending vehicles. "Let's take em out, do the ground pounders a favor." Rebecca confirmed her sighting and turned to make a bomb run, switching on her targeting computers. "Roger that, lining up. I got plenty of clusters for them." Slung beneath her wings were six CBU-87 cluster bombs, designed for use against massed armored targets. The armor piercing bomblets were able to penetrate the much thinner roof armor of tanks, and could reduce an armored charge into a scrap heap in a single pass.

Her off hand drew back on the throttle, before it moved over and pulled down on her flaps. With her airspeed stable, the computer calculated pipper for the bombs shifted, to a point directly ahead and below the aircraft- right where the flare was dropping. "Jester 1-2, pickle!" Her finger jammed the firing stud, allowing the ordnance to finally drop away. Werewolf's fighter felt noticeably lighter without the load, as she pulled up and away, raising her flaps and opening the throttle. A single look back was all she needed- the clearing that held the bridging vehicles was a funeral pyre- the Yukes would have to swim across.

"Jester to Whitebird, Evac Winchester." Doorman called, swinging down and pulling ahead of Rebecca. Whitebird was their E-8 JSTARS, a heavily modified 707 with a ground scan radar, meant for battlefield management. It was for ground attackers what an AWACS was for fighter pilots.

"Negative Jester flight. We have a flight of friendly F-4's running in from the north to make a bombing run. You are ordered to remain in the area and perform a BDA. Their ETA is four minutes." Rebecca was already checking her fuel levels- she knew exactly what her flight lead would ask.

"Werewolf, how's your fuel?" Right on cue.

"I have a few thousand more pounds, good enough to last us those four minutes and get back to base." Her fuel gauge was safely above the "Bingo" level- though any kind of hard maneuvering could easily ruin it. So far enemy fighters had remained far to the west, though Rebecca knew that wouldn't last. If the charge was to succeed, Yuktobania was going to have to take back control of the skies.

"ETA on the Phantoms is 2 minutes. They'll be approaching on bearing oh-one-oh." Rebecca swiveled her head to look around, catching the glint of the fighter's in the morning sun. The F-4 had a distinct profile- dogtooth wings with upward angled wingtips. She counted four, swooping down from the north. Thick black smoke filled the air as they accelerated, laden with Mk. 82 'Snake eye' bombs.

The older Phantoms soared past. The drop was low enough to warrant the use of retarding tails- air brakes that would pop open when the bomb was dropped, allowing the bomber to escape the blast radius before detonation. Each phantom dived into the attack, dropping their payloads and dashing away. They split into two groups, one heading east, and the other west, popping flares and accelerating with all of their admittedly massive engine power. Four subsequent cracks filled the air as each F-4 broke the sound barrier, vanishing into the clouds. The bombs, slowed by their large drag fins, detonated moments later, the entire riverbank vanishing in a curtain of flame. Smaller explosions occasionally became visible through the smoke.

"Jester to Whitebird- we can't see much. The smoke is thick. I can confirm direct hits on the river bank, however." Rebecca drifted closer, her vibrant eyes scanning the ground. The flames and smoke were fading now, revealing the moonscape below. Tanks had been thrown like toys, their turrets lying in the mud. Trucks and armored personnel carriers had simply vanished, shreds of charred steel standing as the only testament to their existence. A handful of the survivors half heartedly returned fire, small arms reaching into the sky. Werewolf had nothing to fear- the armor on her Thunderbolt could withstand anything up to a 23mm cannon round. No rifleman could hurt her.

"Looks like they nailed an entire enemy company. I count seven destroyed tanks and eleven BMP's… and there's not enough left of the trucks to say how much of them they got." The information was quickly relayed to Whitebird, before their new orders came through. The air force officer known only by his call sign returned to them a moment later.

"Jester flight, you are clear to return to base. It's up to the army now."

Doorman and Werewolf complied, pulling up and away, toward Avon City, toward home. The rising sun glinted in their path, shining through the dissipating rain clouds. The weather was taking a turn for the better.

"What do you think they have planned?" Philbert asked, looking over his shoulder. "They wouldn't have had that place bombed to shit for nothing." There was a gap in the Osean lines, no matter what- even if they had filled it with Yuktobanian dead. They would be back, and they would be back with more troops, and more anti-aircraft. Victory now hinged on that on spot- and whether or not the Yuke juggernaut could be stopped. And at that point, there was little the A-10 pilots could do. Whitebird was right- it was up to the army now.

Rebecca thought for a moment. "I think they're trying to keep the gap plugged. Bomb the shit out of it, keep the enemy engineers from building a bridgehead. But you're asking the wrong person. I don't care where the bombs go- I just put them there."

Her flight lead laughed. "You're right- not our problem." They climbed steadily as they left the battlezone, passing a flight of F-16s as they did so. Whatever was going on, it was big- big enough to draw squadrons from all over the theatre. It was a stunning transformation compared to the relative calm that had pervaded the area not long before. "Though I have a feeling that we're going to be back here soon enough." The man frowned, shaking his head before turning away from the fight.

"Oh, and by the way- drinks are on me. We need to celebrate your hundredth mission."

Rebecca blinked. She had lost count- all of the sorties seemed to meld into one after a while. All the way from invasion to this- stalemate. She let out a tired giggle. Drinks would be nice.

"Well… I hope you have deep pockets. I'm gonna bleed you dry."

Phil was left chuckling as the vanished into the dawn. For now, their fight was over. But they would be back soon enough.

/1100 hours, June 11th, 1987/  
/Divisional Command Post, Unknown Location./

Command of V Corps, Osean First Army, fell to Lieutenant General Tyler Warren. He was a stout old man with a gut- though despite his age, he retained the strong arms and imposing form of a long time soldier . A veteran artillery officer and a talented administrator, he had been instrumental in modernizing the pre-war army, and had long been an outspoken critic of Osean foreign policy. A political thorn in the side of the civilian administration, he had been denied a command for a long time, forced to teach at the Wesson Army College. But now, he was Osea's last chance. Finally given command after the repeated failures of his predecessor, he was charged with stopping the Yuktobanian advance once and for all. There was no room for mistakes.

And here was, in the command post of his subordinate- amongst a typhoon of wrath, standing in the center of a swirling whirlwind activity. Men in uniform riled about, carrying papers, radios, messages and any number of top secret information. Every high level officer found his communications running through here, before it moved further up the chain.

The old man stood over a brightly lit map, his eyes scanning over every single detail. It had been recently changed, the laminated surface washed clean and then remarked in grease pencil. Red for hostile forces, and blue for allied. The lazily curving path of the Avon river marked the center of the map, framed on either side by red and blue- except for one particular spot, just a little bit to the north of Avon City. Here, there was a gap. A hole in the line marked by a single red rectangle, surrounded by blue lines.

"So- you're telling me that the enemy forced a crossing- and haven't exploited it." He finally muttered, standing erect and looking down to the stiff form of his subordinate. His voice was incredulous, a tone of disbelief and distrust soaking through every word. "Something tells me that might just happen to be bullshit."

Major General Marius, commander of the 25th National Guard Division, didn't flinch at his superior's tone, and instead nodded. "It's accurate sir. Beyond a single landing by a hostile airborne unit, the Yuktobanians have not attempted a breakthrough. Intelligence suggests that the enemy is suffering from severe supply issues. This has slowed their follow up attack. In addition, our air strikes have succeeded in preventing them from constructing any bridges. Only their amphibious units have been able to cross. As a result, they lack the strength to make any meaningful penetration of our lines. If we were able to move any-"

Marius was cut off by the older man's angry growl. "Move any what? I got every single unit under my command engaged as we speak. We move a single goddamn unit, and it all falls apart." Warren slammed his hand into the map, his penetrating glare never leaving Marius. "Maybe I could pull 2nd Armored out from the north- except if I do that, I suddenly get an enemy tank division up my throat. Or, I could move the marines up from the south- except they're the only thing holding my damn supply lines. Come on Marius, tell me- who do we let die to fix this?"

"Sir-" The lesser general sucked a breath. "I don't have an answer." Warren raised an eyebrow at the man's answer. "All I know is that we've been here. We halt them, bloody them, throw them on the backfoot- and find that we can't counter. Not enough troops, not enough fuel- always. We could play it safe and do nothing sir- or we could do something crazy."

There was a punctual silence as Warren digested Marius's words. The only sound was white noise from the men around them. "Come one Marius, don't leave me hanging here. Tell me."

Marius wiped the sweat from his brow. "I was going to suggest that we pull back our troops around the breach, and make the enemy believe that we're withdrawing. In reality, we would be taking time to recuperate before we make a counter offensive." A major passing by raised his head to stare at the two officers, tripping over himself. Paperwork scattered about. The rumble of voices gradually ebbed away.

"I've already gotten in contact with Admiral Wheeler, as well as General Akiyama. They do have some reserves, thankfully, so the integrity of our lines will remain. Wheeler can spare a brigade of marines, and Akiyama can spare a battalion of paratroops. They're both ready to move as we speak- we can have them in position within 24 hours. In that window of time, we can not only plug the breech- but break through it."

Warren's cold steel eyes widened, before a deep smile tugged at his thin lips. Every man and woman around them had stopped, watching the pair with interest. Talk of counterattack had been gone for a long time.

"Well- it seems that you've been doing good work behind my back General." Warren spoke softly, not looking up for a moment. "But there has to be a downside. If it was this easy we would have done it already."

Marius nodded. "Well sir- I was hoping that you wouldn't ask- but you're right. This plan, like any, has significant drawbacks. First of all, we don't have any reserves, which means we will have to strip logistics units for replacement troops. Admiral Wheeler and General Akiyama have also gifted us their _entire_ strategic reserves. If this fails, we will not be trying again. There is also a severe lack of heavy equipment. All of our units will be traveling light, without tanks. Unless we can strip one of our front units to support them, they won't last any longer than a day."

General Warren considered the information, before turning and walking away from the map. Here they were- in a basement, a stone's throw away from the front line, where they could feel the thunder of cannons. Men and women, broken and exhausted, spending every single waking moment of their lives to hold onto a sliver of land; watching as the most powerful army the world had ever seen turned their home into a battlefield. He brought a hand through his thinning grey hair, and made a choice.

"General Friedrich, General Banner." He called loudly. His two aides rushed forward, standing at attention on either side of him. They were both important members of his staff. Administrators who ran the day to day operations of the entire Corps.

Warren turned to Friedrich first. "I'm leaving you here with Marius. You will act as his aide-de-camp, as well as a direct link to my headquarters. If he wants something done, you do it, got it? I also expect daily reports. I can't stay at the front forever, but I want to feel like I never left."

The younger general nodded resolutely. "Yes sir." He rushed off to begin his duties.

Warren then turned to Banner. "Banner, call to my headquarters, tell them to have a plane ready for me. I'm flying to Oured." Banner nodded, and scrambled off to make the call, leaving General Marius and Warren on their own.

"Leo- I need this to work." Warren said softly, dropping some of the military bravado. "We can't have a repeat of November City. The Army won't survive another defeat like that. Don't hesitate, don't slow down- just do what it takes to win. I trust you." The older officer pulled the younger into a tight hug. "If you need me, just call. Until then, I'm leaving you in command of V Corps. Use it wisely."

Marius looked into Warren's eyes. There was a hard determination in them. "Don't worry General. I won't disappoint." Warren finally allowed a smile to draw on his face. "No matter what- defeat is not an option. We will either turn them back here, or be destroyed. I will accept nothing less." General Marius shook General Warren's hand, one last look being exchanged the two before they broke apart.

Marius waited for Warren to leave, before turning to his staff and sucking in a breath. Low, so that none would hear, he spoke.

"One way or another- this war ends here."


End file.
